Miss Delacourt Has Her Day

by Heidi Ashworth

  Unless Ginny could prove that she would make a splendid duchess, all was lost.

  Anthony stared into the eyes of one of the appalling wooden jackals that leered over his uncle’s hoary head and contemplated what should be done about the duke’s aversion to his chosen bride. He could hardly credit that this was happening, not to the flawlessly correct Sir Anthony. Surely it was far from flawlessly correct to contemplate, however briefly, doing away with the patriarch of one’s own family. Why, he hardly recognized himself, and all for a slip of a girl with whom he was barely acquainted three weeks ago. A girl who had thought him a bigot, a bore, and a beast. A girl who had turned him so upside down, he nearly didn’t recognize his own life. A girl he couldn’t live without, not for a year, not for a week, not even for one more day! He would go this very minute to the office of the Archbishop of Canterbury and obtain a special license. With luck, they could be wed tomorrow.

  “Crenshaw!”

  Anthony leaped to his feet. “Not now, Your Grace. I must go.

  A sinister rasping sound came from the eerie bed. It was more than a few moments before Anthony realized it was his uncle’s laughter.

  “I can see I have landed you a facer, my boy! So, let us cry pax. Put off announcing your betrothal until the end of mourning for my son. In fact, tell no one. If your Miss Delacourt waits for you and you still wish to marry her after I am dead, I will be powerless to stop you”

  Anthony did not want to wait. He did not want to mourn. He did not want to be a duke. He wanted to marry Ginny and take her off on a grand tour of Europe. He wanted to show her Romeo and Juliet’s Venice, Caesar’s Rome, and Hamlet’s Denmark. Most of all, he wanted to give Ginny her wedding in the garden at Dunsmere in June when all the roses were in full bloom. Anything could happen between now and next summer. He had almost lost Ginny in the space of a fortnight, and that was when he was a mere baronet. Young, unmarried, and, dare he add, exquisitely dressed dukes hardly littered the ground, even in London. He shuddered to think of the force of nature unleashed against him by the matchmaking mamas of the world if he failed to marry Ginny forthwith.

  “Your Grace, I hope you never doubt my deep respect for yourself and for my dear departed cousin. However, I find I cannot oblige you in this.”

  “Come, come! If the chit truly loves you, she won’t mind. Needless to say, she has much to do in preparing her trousseau. No doubt she is plying her needle even now. The daughters of vicars are required to be good with a needle, are they not?” the duke said with a cackle.

  No matter how determined Anthony’s attempt, a picture of Ginny sitting meekly by the fire, her flashing needle leaving perfectly neat stitches in its wake while she listened to her father rehearse his latest sermon could not, would not, come to mind. “I really couldn’t say,” Anthony ground out. “Miss Delacourt is not your ordinary, everyday daughter of a vicar. Blast it all, Uncle!” he said, nearly gripping his already much abused hair. “You know this is neither here nor there. Miss Delacourt is perfectly unexceptionable. Why, her lineage is as proud as my own!”

  “Ah! Tut-tut, boy, your lines are noble on both sides, while your vicar’s daughter has only m’mother’s less than sterling ancestry on which to hang her hat. Perhaps you did not know; her grandauntyour grandmother-is descended from a long line of street vendors from Swansea!”

  Anthony gazed down at his uncle with revulsion. “Whether she was descended from cits or not, my grandmother is a true lady. My affianced bride is under her care, under her roof, and under her tutelage. If that is not enough for you, I wouldn’t deign to know what is.” Turning on his heel, he strode toward the door.

  “Wait!”

  Anthony stopped dead in his tracks and turned halfway about. His uncle was a duke, after all. “Your Grace?” he asked, relieved he still remembered how to hide his ire.

  “I hadn’t realized you were possessed of so much spirit,” the duke mused aloud. “You have changed”

  Anthony turned to face his uncle, gave him his most disarming smile, and said, “In that, Your Grace, you are most correct” Then he turned and quit the room, slamming the door behind him. He moved as quickly as possible through the hall and down the stairs in order to avoid everyone from his cousin’s widow down through his uncle’s butler, the upstairs maid, the matched pair of footmen, and on through to the boot boy, most of whom knew him from boyhood, when Crenshaw House on Hanover Square in London had been his favorite haunt. The servants had known him first as Tony, then Anthony, then Sir Anthony, and now the blasted Crenshaw. However, all he wanted at the moment was to be called “my love” and to be with his.

  He was relieved when he encountered no one but the butler and that all he handed Anthony with his hat and gloves was a simple “M’lord.” He was safely out the door and down the front stair with his foot upon the carriage step when he heard it.

  .‘Tony!”

  That voice. How did it have the power to slide into his heart like a shaft of ice after all this time? Slowly he turned, the space between his shoulder blades itching as if he were expecting a bullet in his back at any moment, until, finally, there she was. Rebecca.

  She was poised on the step of her own conveyance for all who passed to better appreciate the way the black-trimmed chocolate brown of her travel ensemble played up the copper of her sparkling eyes. Her extremely long honey-blond hair was done up in thick coils pinned under a jaunty little hat. He felt quite sure she had never looked lovelier.

  “It is you!” she cried loudly enough for the neighbors safe in their homes to hear. In fact, he thought he saw the curtains in more than one window in the house across the square twitch. Funny, it was here at Crenshaw House that he had last laid eyes on her. On these very same steps. Long ago, that night when he had nearly given her a ring.

  “Uh, yes, I live here. That is, I, er, live here. In London.”

  She sprang from her perch and with nimble steps was at his side in a trice. “Yes, of course, but I heard you were getting married next month in some backwater town. How delightful to see I was wrong!”

  “No! That is, not wrong; I am getting married. In fact, we are in town to choose bride clothes.”

  She smiled at him coyly, no doubt measuring her words lest they escape her highly rouged lips minus the desired effect. Rebecca, the woman with whom he once fancied himself in love, wielded the most innocuous words with such extraordinary results, one often blinked up from the ground, wondering what hit him.

  “How charitable you are!” she said with an arch of one fine, dark eyebrow. “Why, I am certain it was my darling father who paid a small fortune for my bride clothes when I married the earl.”

  The earl, Anthony recalled, was the rich and ancient nobleman Rebecca had become engaged to the very morning after giving Anthony permission to pay his addresses to her. If anyone had sold herself for a parcel of bride clothes, it was Rebecca. The woman was outside of enough! Did she think him still the callow youth who couldn’t see past her beauty to her stony heart?

  Choosing his words carefully-he did not wish to hide his reproach, nor did he relish a shouting match in the middle of Hanover Square-he said, “Miss Delacourt, my affianced bride, is under the protection of her aunt. It is she who will foot the bill for the clothing, not I. Had I done, it would raise more than a few eyebrows. I am sure you did not mean to imply anything untoward. In fact, I rather think you have run right past implications into outright accusation, but it will never wash. Miss Delacourt is well known in London for her rectitude.” Never mind that it was for her self-righteous prudery that Ginny was known; she was his prude, and he loved her for it. “Meanwhile, I have rooms of my own I will be inhabiting, while Miss Delacourt stays with her grandaunt”

  He turned to leave Rebecca standing in the street, then thought better of it. “Oh, did I forget to mention? Miss Delacourt’s grandaunt is better known to you as the Dowager Duchess of Marcross. However, I call her Grandmama”

  Rebecca-or Lady Derby, as she was style
d since her marriage to her well-heeled earl-paled just a little under the faux red of her cheeks, while her eyes narrowed into slits the color of dirty pennies. “How convenient. No doubt Miss Delacourt’s provincial friends are wishful of an aunt such as she, one who just happens to be possessed of a grandson with claims to a duchy.” She smiled the way she did when she wanted you to believe all was forgiven when she had in fact just begun to condemn. “How clever you are! La! If I had a stain on my gown-a muslin gown, to be sure-a grandmother like yours would be the first person I would think of as having the means to wash it clean!”

  Anthony was suddenly filled with the longing to slap a woman, a feeling he had never known before meeting one Lucinda Barrington, a foolish child who had cornered him into a false engagement shortly before he became engaged to Ginny. For a moment he considered doing just as he pleased, but knew that Ginny, in spite of her tendency to become a bit brutal when in a snit, would not approve.

  “Ah! I will be sure to tell Grandmama how low your opinion of her has sunk, Lady Derby. She will no doubt find it as amusing as I” Without a backward glance, he swung himself up into his carriage, where his desires vacillated between indulging in a bout of laughter or taking potshots at the buttons in the upholstery with the gun he kept secreted in the carriage.

  After being held up by highwaymen on the road a few weeks back, he felt one could never be too careful, especially since he now had Ginny’s safety to consider. On the other hand, being possessed of a loaded firearm could prove less than prudent. He was so weary of hearing how Ginny was not good enough for Lord Crenshaw, heir to a title and all of his uncle’s vast holdings, that he would happily put a bullet into the next person to disapprove.

  He considered turning around and heading straight for Doctor’s Commons, the offices of the Archbishop of Canterbury, to acquire a special license to wed immediately but thought better of it. First, he should confer with Grandmama. If anyone knew how to handle this uproar, it was she. Besides which, she already had the wedding preparations well in hand. She had arranged for the banns to be read, both in his parish as well as Ginny’s, starting this Sunday. The modiste was due at Wembley House to fit Ginny for her wedding gown this very afternoon. Indeed, he would not be surprised to learn that Grandmama had bullied seeds to spring into flowers in the gardens at Dunsmere just in time for the great day.

  Of course, if anyone could shed some light on Rebecca’s sudden appearance in town, it would be Grandmama. He had thought the shameless Lady Derby to be safely crowing over the provincial misses in her own backwater estate-but wait. Wasn’t it Lord Derby who’d stuck his spoon into the wall this time last year? He groaned. The woman was a widow, and she was now on the hunt for a new husband. After a day such as today, that was all that was needed! No doubt his mother had much to do with Rebecca’s landing on the doorstep of Crenshaw House a month before her son’s wedding to another woman. His mother would have much to answer for, not the least of which were her unkind words to Ginny the night previous.

  Matters were beginning to take an ugly turn. The only possible hope of applying salve to his wounds was time spent with his beloved. With a savage lash of his whip, Anthony was on his way.

  The moment the bell rang at Wembley House, Ginny ran down the stairs to the entry hall. Her ladylike attire, a fadedrose sprigged muslin with perfectly matched sash and shoes, was at odds with her desire to spring to the door and open it herself. It took all her forbearance to remain standing by the stair while Garner, the butler, made his sedate way from the pantry where he had been polishing the silver plate. She could not wait one second longer than needful to hear from her sweetheart’s own lips that all would be well.

  Oh, bother, why must Garner move so slowly? With a sigh, she pressed her lips together. A future duchess did not harry her servants. Or did she? Ginny wasn’t sure but was persuaded Grandaunt would read her a lecture on her conduct, regardless.

  Finally, the door was open, but Anthony, with his strong, sure stride, did not immediately enter. From her place by the stair, she could just make out the edge of his blue superfine coat, buff pantaloons, and, upon the removal of his highcrowned hat, the sheen of golden hair.

  As Anthony was dark of hair, she banished Grandaunt’s imagined admonitions to the back of her mind and hastened to the door, where stood Lord Avery and, beside him, his new bride, Lucinda.

  “Why, Lord Avery. Lady Avery. Please do come in. What a surprise.” Surprise, indeed. They were the last two she expected to see. Not only were they not particular friends of hers despite the time they’d spent together enduring a pox quarantine earlier that month, they were meant to be off on a wedding journey. “I had thought you safely in Brussels by now.”

  “Brussels!” Lord Avery snorted, handing his hat and gloves to the butler. “It would seem Boney and I had the very same idea!”

  “Yes, isn’t it marvelous?” Lucinda cried in typical Lucinda fashion. “Napoleon and my darling Eustace are both military geniuses!”

  “Oh,” Ginny said, faintly. It was most difficult to picture Lord Avery-chin-wobbler, wallower, and weeper extraordinairein the same room as Napoleon, let alone the same career. “I hadn’t heard he had made it as far as that”

  “Well,” Lord Avery said with a wink, “he’s not quite there yet. In fact, everyone who is anyone has gathered in wait at the Belgium border.”

  Ginny could never hope to understand Society’s fascination with battle. The idea of sitting in a carriage eating luncheon out of a basket while soldiers fought for their lives a few yards away made her flesh crawl. However, she could see that it suited the drama-hungry Lucinda right down to her toes.

  “So, why is it you are not there, then?” Ginny asked as she led them upstairs to the gold and green drawing room. “I should think you would love it above all things.” And far better for her if these two were indeed in Brussels and not invading the only hour of quiet she and Anthony would have together for several days. She sighed while Lucinda seated herself on the green shadow-striped sofa as if settling in for a long cose.

  “Yes, of course, you know me so well, Ginny! Might I still call you Ginny?” she asked with a brutal batting of her lashes that threatened to dislodge them from their moorings.

  Ginny wasn’t sure how to respond. In a society wherein a wife rarely referred to her own husband by his given name in public, Ginny wasn’t sure what to say. She so much wanted to be unexceptionable in every way; yet it seemed too staid to insist that Lucinda call her Miss Delacourt after all they had been through in the past fortnight: highwaymen, a pox quarantine, romantic entanglements, and a broken engagement or two.

  Taking a deep breath and hoping Grandaunt was not standing in her adjacent study with an ear pressed to the wall, she said, “Yes, naturally, you may call me Ginny, as ever.”

  “And you may call me Lady Avery! Or just my lady, because we are the best of friends, are we not?”

  Ginny felt sure Lucinda was incorrect on two counts; close friends called each other by first names if so desired, yet she and Lucinda could hardly be referred to as such. Under the circumstances, the title of Lady Avery was most appropriate. As startled as Ginny was by Lucinda’s lofty double standard, she owned it was so like her, she nearly laughed aloud.

  “Very well, Lady Avery. Pray, do tell why you have cut short your wedding journey and returned to London.”

  “Oh, do let me say, my darling!” Lord Avery queried with a glance at his wife. His joy soon turned to concern when he took in her suddenly frail appearance. “My darling! Are you about to faint?”

  “Yes, Eustace! Can’t you see how I am sinking to the floor even as we speak?” Lucinda demanded in a voice far stronger than possible in one so seemingly incapacitated. Fascinated, Ginny wondered what her role in Lucinda’s little drama ought to be. She decided to stay put, a decision that afforded her an excellent view of Lucinda’s slow and surely feigned descent to the floor while Lord Avery hastened to place a cushion in every spot he reckoned her h
ead might possibly land.

  Sadly, he miscalculated, and there was a loud clunk as her head slipped between two cushions and bounced off the hardwood floor.

  Lucinda’s eyes popped open. “Might you not have caught me this time?” she snapped.

  Lord Avery hastened to his wife’s side and helped her to her feet. “Yes, of course, my darling. It’s only that my back is still in agony from the last few times I have done so”

  Considering Lucinda’s tiny frame, Ginny could only assume the fainting and catching had been going on fairly constantly ever since their elopement four days prior. Poor Lord Avery! He most likely hadn’t had any idea what he was getting along with that fatuous smile and generous dowry.

  Lucinda fluttered to her seat while Lord Avery reclaimed the cushions from the floor and propped them all around her head in a vain attempt to hold her aloft should she faint yet again.

  “That’s quite enough, my love,” Lucinda said, rapping him soundly on the arm with her fan. “You see, dearest Ginny,” she said in a deep, grave voice, “I am in a delicate condition.”

  Delicate, indeed! Ginny felt no doubt that Lucinda had a delicate figure, delicate features, and, far too often, a delicate understanding of reality; however, four days was not enough for even the most astute woman to ascertain whether or not her family was growing. Yet there sat Lord Avery, smiling like a cat in the cream pot.